


Counterparts

by likeadeuce



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Class Issues, Conversations, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Ireland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-20
Updated: 2012-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-31 11:28:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeadeuce/pseuds/likeadeuce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matthew was the one who went to tell Branson that he hadn't been sacked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Counterparts

**Author's Note:**

> Episode 01x06, missing scene (no spoilers beyond this ep, though some light foreshadowing). Because it's tragic there aren't more stories about Matthew and Branson being super-awkward bros. And because somebody should have gone to tell him that.
> 
> Thanks to harmonyangel and lareinenoire for betaing!

Matthew was the one who went to tell Branson that he hadn't been sacked.

Approaching the door of the chauffeur's cottage, Matthew swallowed the urge to whistle a jaunty tune that its resident might not appreciate just then. Satisfied he had achieved control over his own uncharacteristically giddy mood, he gave a quick clean knock.

After a moment's audible scrambling, Branson said, "Come in!" 

The driver was standing with his chin raised, in his shirt sleeves and trousers. The tangled uniform vest and jacket lay next to him, over the small room's only chair, suggesting he had considered and discarded them. Branson started to say something to whomever he thought would be at the door -- Carson, or one of the footmen on an errand from Carson. Then, realizing it was Matthew, he said right away, "Is Lady Sybil in the clear?"

"She's resting comfortably. And you're in the clear as well. You still have your job. Cousin Robert saw reason."

Branson exhaled like he'd been holding his breath since Matthew got there. "Thank you. I've been sitting here, mapping out the rest of my life without this position. It’s a bit terrifying." He shook his head. "A bit exciting, too, I won’t lie, but all in all --." 

"All's well that ends well," Matthew assured him. 

"Yes," Branson said. "Thank you for coming to tell me. I'm glad it occurred to someone that I would like to have that information." The chauffeur spoke in his cheerful, professional voice, without a hint of sarcasm, so that it took Matthew a moment to notice the rebuke in the words. It had been several hours since they parted company, and Branson must have been sitting here with his apocalyptic thoughts while Matthew and Mary were. . . otherwise occupied.

"It was Lady Mary's idea for me to stop by on my way out," Matthew said. This was a lie, but a good-hearted one. He wanted Branson to feel kindly toward Mary. Besides, she had, as they parted, pronounced Matthew's idea "good," and mentioned that Branson seemed maybe a decent fellow after all. From Mary, this counted as effusive praise. Then, it had been an unusual evening all around with Mary. Matthew could feel a rapturous smile settling onto his face.

Maybe too rapturous. Branson was staring at him like he might be simple. "Thanks to you, Mr. Crawley, for your kindness, and to Lady Mary as well. Would you like me to take you home now?"

Matthew stepped backwards. "If you want me out, I can walk. I didn't come over here to ask for a ride."

"Very well, sir." Branson let the silence hang there, as though he couldn't imagine what came next if it wasn't driving Matthew home. Matthew had no immediate answer because he hadn't thought beyond delivering the good news. Then Branson said, "If you want to stay a bit and talk --?" He sounded unsure that Matthew could want such a thing, yet guilelessly eager for it to be true. 

Matthew wouldn't have had the heart to refuse if he'd wanted to. Everyone who'd ever been driven by the young chauffeur knew he was a chatterbox; legend had it, he could even keep up a steady patter with the dowager Countess. But Matthew had always put this down to some combination of professional façade and natural Irish blarney. It only now occurred to him that Branson might just be a terribly lonely young man, a long way from home, desperate for someone who wanted to listen.

Branson cleaned the chair off for Matthew, which involved moving the jacket, the vest, and a considerable stack of books. From the bindings, Matthew guessed they came from Lord Grantham's library, and even in his hurrying about, Branson moved them with obvious care. Once that was done, he looked around as though puzzled where he was going to sit, before settling on the bed. Matthew wondered if he'd had another guest in the months he'd lived here.

"Well --" Branson set a hand down next to him, and frowned as he saw it rested on a pile of socks. "Right. I was taking inventory of everything that I actually owned. I would have traveled light going home." Again, he said, "Thank you. I appreciate you and Lady Mary speaking up for me."

"It's really Cousin Sybil you have to thank," Matthew said. "I didn’t witness it, but Mary said she was glorious. Swore if _you_ left, _she_ would run away." Matthew had found this sweet but also funny, a reminder of the many ways that Sybil was still essentially a child. 

If he'd expected Branson to be amused, though, the effect was quite the opposite. His eyes widened, and he stammered, "Mr. Crawley, I swear to you. I never said anything to Lady Sybil about running away with me."

Now it was Matthew's turn to sit in dumbstruck silence. As Sybil's cousin and the future lord of the manor, how was he supposed to deal with _that_ sentiment from a servant? "No," he said. "No. I meant -- she threatened she would run away from home. Like a little child does." 

"Oh," Branson put a hand to his face. "Oh. I was confused."

"I didn't mean to alarm you," Matthew said. "I'm not accusing you --."

"It's all right." Branson sighed. "I clearly had the thought, and just having the thought ought to get me sacked." In the light of the room's oil lamp, Branson watched Matthew's face, carefully. Matthew was acutely aware of the experience that was still very new to him, of holding another man's livelihood in his hands.

"I promise," said Branson. "It was only a very passing, very idle thought. I know what I am, in the eyes of the world, and I know what Sybil Crawley is. I'm sure to make mistakes in my life, but misunderstanding that truth will not be one of them."

Branson probably didn’t mean to lie. Still, in that moment, Matthew knew with a certainty that he was desperately trying to fool himself about his feelings for Sybil. But then, it was hardly fair to fire a man for having a crush -- especially when that very devotion had, just today, helped to save the girl from serious harm. Besides, Matthew had only his judgment to go on, but that judgment told him Branson wasn't any kind of seducer. If he posed any risk to Sybil's virtue, it was only as much as she wanted him to. 

And as for Sybil – sweet, good-hearted Sybil spread her smiles and her enthusiasms in a hundred directions at once. Mary had warned Matthew, just tonight, that her little sister might have a crush on him. He didn't think that was true, but he saw how even Mary, who knew her well, could believe it. For someone like Branson -- odd, lonely, homesick Branson -- it would be so easy to look at the girl's smiles, to partake of her conversation, and see things that weren't even remotely there. Matthew wondered if it was better to tell him that, to help him have an idea of the type of girl Sybil was, or to let him put what would never happen down to some ineffable wall between the classes. Which, to be honest, would probably have done them in, anyway.

"I won't say a word," Matthew promised. 

Branson let out another long sigh of relief. "It's nothing. I swear. I know it could never come to anything. Only thoughts. Desire of the moth for the star. That’s all." 

Poetry seemed like a safe topic to grab for. "Does Yeats still go over in revolutionary circles?" Matthew asked. "I can never keep track."

Unfortunately, the look Branson gave him was genuinely perplexed, and a little frustrated. It was as though Matthew was clearly, painfully wrong about five things at the same time, and Branson both didn't know where to start and was reluctant to be rude. "First," he said, falling into a schoolboy's almost singsong recital, "I'm a democratic socialist. We believe change will come about because of the strength of our ideas, without the need for violent revolutions." 

"I'm sorry. I'm sure I knew that. It was a bad joke." He wondered, then, if he had accidentally volunteered to hear Branson's lecture on political theory. Matthew had always taken his mother's Liberal views and friends for granted, and thought that made him a Liberal, too. Now he had to negotiate Cousin Robert's Tory sensibility (and maybe Mary's as well? He realized now that she'd dodged that question nicely) and was starting to wonder if he knew what he believed for himself, at all. Still, it had been an awfully long day to end up with politics, and he was rather relieved when Branson seemed inclined to move on to other subjects. 

"As for Yeats," Branson said. "He's an Anglo-Irish berk, but he's hard to avoid. If you go in for that kind of thing, I suppose he’s not bad. I'm more of a prose man, myself, most of the time. Still, I think --" Now his frown was almost apologetic. "'Moth for the star,' I think is actually by --"

"--Shelley," said Matthew. "I realized as soon as I'd said it. I thought of Yeats because you’re --"

“Yes,” Branson said, mercifully cutting him off. “I suppose as far as national generalizations go, I'll take, 'Fond of Yeats' over 'Drunk, thieving, potato-eating pig-ignorant scum of the Earth." He shrugged, and Matthew must have looked horrified, because Branson broke into a laugh. "I was joking. Not very well, I suppose. Not that I haven't been called all those things, but, you know. . . Race and nationality are red herrings used by the oppressive classes to keep the workers of the world from discovering our common interests."

A smile twitched across Matthew's face. "Some people say the Irish talk a lot of nonsense, too."

"Well," Branson said gravely. "That is _clearly_ not correct."

Then their eyes met, and both of them laughed. 

"You know, I'm mostly a prose man, too," Matthew admitted. And although he meant Trollope and Austen, where Branson apparently meant Engels and Marx, they both decided to treat it as a declaration of common interest. 

"It did --" Branson broke into a laugh again. "It did sound a bit like Yeats." Then for no real reason, Branson was laughing so hard that he had to wipe tears from his eyes. When Matthew noticed their redness, he realized it wasn't the first time Branson had cried tonight. 

"I should tell you a secret, too," Matthew said. 

Branson made a show of crossing his heart.

"I've just proposed marriage to Lady Mary." 

"Congratulations. . ." Branson sounded cautious, almost as though he might be waiting for a punchline.

It struck Matthew belatedly that a tale of romantic triumph with a Crawley woman was a poor tradeoff for Branson's accidental admission of desperate futility. He added, "She hasn't accepted me."

"Oh," Branson said. Then, "Good luck?" 

Matthew laughed uneasily. "You sound unsure"

"It's not my place to comment --"

"God, Branson. I don't care about your place."

"Well, then. I understand there are many people at Downton who would welcome this development."

"You're just not sure whether Lady Mary is one of them."

"To tell the truth, Mr. Crawley -- I wasn't sure you were one of them."

"Oh. Well. I love Mary." He felt immediate guilt for trying the declaration out on someone whose opinion he didn't have to regard. He fought back the ungenerous thought that no man captive to Sybil Crawley's easy charms could appreciate the complexity of what it meant to love her oldest sister. He tried just as hard to dismiss the idea that he'd heard somewhere, that the best way to understand a person's character was to ask their servant. If Branson didn't think she was a likeable person. . . 

Or there was an easier explanation. "I don't exactly know Lady Mary," Branson admitted. "I drive her and I talk, but she doesn't talk back much. You might as well ask the horse for his opinion." He glanced at Matthew and, maybe seeing his dissatisfaction with the answer, conceded, "She was good today. Kind. Concerned for Lady Sybil." Matthew had a mental image of the ledger by which Branson classified things in his life, with the 'credit' side consisting of, "The workers controlling the means of production," "well-polished chrome," and "people who are kind to Lady Sybil." 

Branson continued, "It's lucky you were in Ripon, as well. God knows who I would have gone to for help, since I didn't know where I was going to be --" He stopped, looked at his hands for a moment, then up at Matthew. "I think I just realized that Lady Sybil lied to me."

"Yes," Matthew said, "That is -- that was the basic thread of your defense. If you'd taken her to the elections deliberately, against Lord Grantham's wishes, you'd --" He stopped himself from saying, 'deserve to be sacked,' partly because he saw the stricken look on Branson's face. "There's no reason to feel bad. She lied to everybody."

"There's a difference between lying to your father, and lying to your chauffeur. If you can convince your father, that proves something. Lying to a servant just means --" He shook his head. "She wound me up and pointed me in the right direction. I might as well have _been_ the horse."

"She was protecting you," Matthew said. "I'm not defending what she did, but the fact that she did it is why you still have a position."

"Yes, that's right. Let's never forget my position." He sighed. "I suppose I'm reconciled to spending a few more years of my life as an unusually well-read horse."

"Have you given any thought to studying the law?" 

Branson turned a long stare on him. He finally said, "There are a few intermediate steps. I haven't been in a school since I was fourteen."

"But you're very well read. Sybil says so.” When that attracted the wrong kind of eager attention, Matthew amended, "Cousin Robert says so, too. Though I'm not sure he means it as a compliment. The point is, you hear about poor men bettering their positions all the time. Not that you're poor-- I only mean, if they can do it, surely --"

"I've been poor," Branson said, shortly. "If I lost this job, I'd be poor in no time again. So it happens I don't think being called 'poor' is the world's worst insult, which is just where most of the world seems to disagree with me."

"All I mean to say is I know a lot of men in the law. I'm only getting started here myself, at the moment. But if you ever want me to see what it would take to get you in as a clerk, or . . ." He, in fact, had no idea how workable the idea was, but he'd said it (it seemed like something his mother would want him to say) and now he would feel churlish if he took it back.

"Mr. Crawley," Branson said, with a gentle smile. "I mean no offense to you as a country solicitor, or as the future lord of the manor. But I'm not English and I've not got much interest in devoting my life to English law. Even if I thought your friends would appreciate the kind of work I'd want to do. Especially because I believe most of the problems in our society lie with the laws as they currently exist. I already know what I'm doing with my life. I know people back in Dublin, journalists and organizers. I'll go home and join them, once I've worked here a few years. Made some money, helped some of my friends come over here so they can make some money –" He laughed. "If you want to invent a position to help me out, why don't you get your own car and hire my brother to drive it?" 

"I'm – not sure that's practical right now." Matthew felt taken aback, and then sheepish that it was so easy for Branson to disconcert him by turning the tables. You offered favors to servants; they didn't generally request them.

"It's all right," Branson said cheerfully. "He doesn't listen to anything I suggest, anyway. And he can't drive. I'd teach him, of course, but then it comes back to how he never listens."

"I keep missing your jokes," Matthew apologized.

"That's only a joke if you don't really want to hire him. Not that he'd come. I miss the little bugger, though. It gets a bit lonely here." Then he smiled, like he wanted Matthew to think that had been a joke, too. "But it's not so bad. I've got lots of time to read and think. And I spend the rest of it fooling around with some very nice cars, which, aside from reading and running my Irish mouth, happens to be my favorite thing to do."

"And sometimes you drive pretty girls around."

"Sometimes I do. Sometimes I rescue your fiancee's sister from an angry mob."

"I helped with that," said Matthew, deciding to let “fiancee” go. Then he amended, "I suppose you get most of the credit." Though he had been proud of himself for landing a nice punch in the midst of the fight, he had to admit it was Branson who had carried Sybil away from the danger. "Of course, you drove her there in the first place."

"Yes, yes. Now we're back to the sore spot. But the point is -- what I'm doing right now is what I want to be doing right now."

"Fair enough," said Matthew. "I'm no good at this, anyway. Sybil’s going to get her housemaid work as a secretary. Last time I had a conversation with a servant about his place in the world, I offended my valet. Told him picking out cuff links was a silly thing for a grown man to do."

"That is a pretty silly thing for a grown man to do," Branson mused. "I manage to get myself into that fancy uniform every day, cuff links and all."

"Of course, you might as well say people could just decide to drive their own cars."

"Oh no, we couldn't have that." Branson shook his head. "I hope it doesn't catch on for a few more years anyway. Speaking of which –" Branson stifled a yawn. "Do you fancy a ride home before we fall asleep right here?"

"I promise I can walk."

"I promise I don't mind. I do love that Renault, and I was afraid I'd never get behind her wheel again." He stood. "Just let me get myself in order." 

"So what would happen if you drove me home in the car, dressed like you are right now? No jacket, no gloves, no hat. What would that lead to?"

"The destruction of Western civilization as we know it.”

"Oh," said Matthew. Then, "Aren't you supposed to be in favor of that?"

"Rise, working classes. You have nothing to lose but your cuff links. No, that doesn’t do." He gave Matthew a wink. "It’s not as though I’m an _anarchist_."

As Branson shrugged into his uniform vest and reached for the coat, Matthew cleared his throat. The chauffeur stopped to look at him, and Matthew said, "I want you to know, Branson. I'm sorry."

"For what?" He sounded genuinely bewildered at what could have driven Matthew to apologize.

"For leaving you to stew out here. Not coming to tell you sooner. Getting wrapped up in my own –" He stopped himself from saying "problems," since putting a beautiful, spirited woman who would very likely agree to marry him into that category seemed like tempting fate "—my own concerns."

"It's already forgotten. Like you said, it ended well. And –" A smile played at his lips. "I can see how your concerns were distracting. I can't say, in your place, I'd have been consumed with worry about how the driver was feeling."

It struck Matthew that, contrary to what he had half-consciously believed about working-class agitators, very little of Branson's motivation seemed to stem from personal resentment. 

Or maybe he just understood what it was like to have your heart on the string of a Crawley woman. Maybe that was what they'd turn out to have in common, after all.

Matthew realized he was lost in his thoughts, when Branson stood in the open door and turned back to him with a puzzled look. "You coming?"

"Sure," Matthew answered, stepping out into the night. "Whatever you say."


End file.
